


A Seven Letter Word

by severalkittens



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, who's coping with transfer rumors? not me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-28 14:02:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19813798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severalkittens/pseuds/severalkittens
Summary: “Please,” Jan whispers into Toby’s neck. “Don’t leave.”Toby grips the back of Jan’s neck for a moment, but then his fingers slacken. His hands find Jan’s shoulders, and suddenly there are six careful inches between them. He doesn’t say a word as he walks away.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this in during the CL quarterfinals. Now seemed like a good time to finish it off.

_Liverpool 2, Tottenham 1. Spurs drop HEARTBREAKER after Alderweireld own goal._

Jan scans his teammates spilling onto the plane. There’s no sign of Toby yet. Last time Jan saw him, he was shrugging off Eriksen’s concerned hand, turning away from Jan’s attempt to catch his eye. Then he headed into the showers, a dead look in his eye. 

Jan knows there will be headlines. He doesn’t care. There have been headlines for a couple years now, but it’s in the build-up to the quarter finals that Jan really notices them for the first time. They’ve just lost another game in the Premier League, and they’ve drawn City in the Champions League. Given their current form, no one really expects them to go through. It’s everywhere:

_Classic City, must’ve paid UEFA for an easy draw._

Then there’s Kyle Walker’s tweet, someone he once considered one of their own. He can see Walker’s shit-eating grin, clear as if he was walking into the locker room now with the cockerel still on his chest. _This will be fun._

As if he needs a reminder of another member of their backline who’d abandoned them for greener pastures. Jan hunches over in his seat, scrolling through his phone angrily. He’s gotten good at blocking most things out- the state of the world, the state of the Premier League table, the latest jibe at Tottenham’s fortunes. But there are some headlines he can’t ignore-

_Manchester United plan HUGE swoop for Spurs Ace_

_Will this one star leave Tottenham for ONLY 25 mil?_

Jan finds the speculation over Toby offensive, if he’s being honest. Sure, United have history, but Spurs have Champions League, and Spurs have Jan. Surely that’s preferable, right? He once read an interview Toby did- He said Jan would have to come with him if he left Spurs. It hadn’t been news to Jan, but he remembers it in particular because the interview was in French, and Toby doesn’t speak French very often. 

It’s a nice thought, but realistically Jan knows he couldn’t join Toby at United. They’d never shell out for a second aging defender with his laid-back attitude. And the feeling is mutual- he wouldn’t want to go.

Besides, where are United now? Struggling to break into the top four. The tie with Barcelona in the Champions League no better than their own. Jan knows Spurs have had their slip-ups, but they’ve been hovering around the title race for ages. He knows they’ll break through soon. _He just knows it._

And where else? Juventus? Roma? No, if Toby goes now, Jan won’t come with him. He’ll stay at Tottenham, and maybe some day see him back at Ajax. The knowledge doesn’t sit well with Jan, because if you’d caught him off guard and asked, he’d tell you he’d follow Toby to hell and back.

Toby finally gets on the plane, and Jan’s a little relieved he hasn’t drowned himself in the shower. He carefully slides in past Jan, folds himself up against the window. He doesn’t say a word, but there’s a grateful look in his eyes. Jan knows he won’t say anything for the whole ride. They won’t talk about it.

There’s a lot they don’t talk about. Not their professional relationship, not their personal one. Not the fact that Jan _would_ follow Toby to hell and back. 

A lot of those things go without saying. Like that Jan is Toby’s first-choice center back partner, and he hates it when they have to play with Kompany between them for Belgium. Or that Jan is the expert in how to prepare for different strikers, while Toby’s forte is positioning. Toby’s never spoken the words, “ _you’re my best friend.”_ But Jan knows he is. And Jan’s certainly never said _“I love you.”_ It doesn’t matter, Toby probably knows he does.

Jan watches him fiddle with his airpods, draw his hood, and lean against the window. He shuts his eyes, exhaustion etched deep into his features. _I’d do anything to make you smile right now,_ Jan thinks. He’s pretty sure that’s one of the things he doesn’t need to say that out loud for Toby to know.

It had been Eriksen who pointed it out first, a half-season or so after Toby came to Spurs. They’d been sitting in Jan’s back yard sharing beers, and Toby had popped in to use the toilet and refill their glasses.

Christian had a thoughtful look on his face. It was a look he wore often, and so Jan hadn’t thought to question it. Not until he’d opened his mouth, anyway.

“You love him,” he’d said, simply, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What?” Jan had been indignant, sputtering the gulp of warm beer he’d just taken all over his shirt.

“Please, it’s so obvious,” he’d scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Tell me you don’t want to be with him.” 

“I-“ Jan had started to protest, but it had stuck in his throat. In that moment, his only coherent thoughts had been, _I want Toby to be happy, and I want to be the one who does it._

Eriksen had let it go, lest Toby come back from the kitchen and overhear the accusations. But later that night, Jan had finally allowed himself to think about all the ways in which he could make Toby happy. And yeah, no, he was definitely in love.

For a while, Jan had naively hoped Christian might just let it go forever. That maybe it had something to do with the beers they’d consumed, or the particular way the sun was shining that day. But he knew better than that, so he hadn’t been surprised when one night, Christian had paused Breaking Bad right in the middle, and turned to Jan with that same look in his eye.

“Are you ever going to tell him?” he’d said, face deadpan as if he were simply asking Jan about the weather. 

“What?” Jan had squeaked, rendered near-speechless a second time. Christian hadn’t even graced that with a response, just folded his arms across his chest again and fixed Jan with a stare. 

Jan had sighed in defeat, and mumbled something about not wanting to ruin the relationship they had.

“He feels the same, you know,” he’d said lightly.

“How do you know that? Did you ask him?” Jan had begged like a teenager, but Christian had nothing else to offer.

“I just know,” he’d said. And then he’d turned the television back on, and they pretended like the conversation had never happened.

In general, Jan knew Christian had probably been right. But on the off chance he wasn’t, Jan kept his mouth shut tight. Christian, for his part, had kept his mouth shut, too. His facial expressions were an entirely different story. Jan could count on an exasperated look from the midfielder every time he caught him looking a little too long, or going a little too far out of his way.

And then there had been that one time. They’d qualified for the World Cup, there’d been alcohol, there’d been dancing, there’d been Toby, just a little bit too close. Toby, sleepily cuddling up to Jan in the back of a cab, adoring look plastered across his drunk features, and a slurred whisper that sounded suspiciously like, “ _love you.”_

So yeah, Eriksen was right. But Jan wasn’t going to budge an inch. It wasn’t worth risking the friendship, and it certainly wasn’t worth risking Spurs back line.

Jan jolts awake when the plane lands. He hadn’t realized he’d dozed off, and now his pinkie is just millimeters from Toby’s, so close he can almost brush it without moving. He doesn’t though, just withdraws it before he has time to make any bad decisions.

Toby doesn’t move when the doors open, but the little crease in his forehead tells Jan he’s not really asleep. That crease is never there when he’s been drinking, or when he’s at rest. When their teammates starts to file out and Toby still doesn’t move, Jan realizes he’s trying to avoid having to talk to anyone. He wants to reach out and smooth that little crease, wrap Toby up in his arms and carry him home. Wash the gel out of his hair and-

“ _Ahem.”_ He’s jarred from his thoughts by Christian, who caught Jan’s sappy, sympathetic expression as he passed by. Jan schools his face, but he can’t keep a blush from rising in his cheeks. 

“Toby,” he says, once Ben Davies passes them, last off the plane. He almost brushes a knuckle across Toby’s cheek, but catches himself at the last second. Toby doesn’t stir.

“They’re gone,” he continues, waiting for some acknowledgement, anything. But Toby remains motionless.

“Fine,” Jan says. _That’s ok, you don’t want to talk to me either right now. That’s fine._ And Jan grabs his bag and walks off the plane. 

He heads straight to the toilet, not because he actually has to go, but because he desperately needs to collect himself. He splashes water on his face, and stares at himself for a minute before he walks out into the waiting area. 

“Cab, Jan?” It’s Christian. They live nearby, so he often splits rides home on nights like this.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jan says, absentmindedly. Christian moves away to dial their taxi. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a well-coiffed blond head disappear out the door into the carpark. 

Christian looks up in alarm, and covers the receiver with his hand.

“Jan, where’s Toby going?” Jan doesn’t like that tone. It’s the one Christian uses when he’s about to tell Jan he’s being stupid.

“I don’t know, home?” Jan says innocently.

“ _Jan_ ,” Eriksen sighs. His voice is full of long-suffering frustration, and the accusing look he gives is worse. “Just, go make sure he’s ok.” Yeah, yeah, he knows. He turns and quickly trots out the door.

“Toby, wait!” Jan yells, when he catches sight of Toby on the far side, walking quickly toward his car. Toby takes a few more steps, and for a second, he doesn’t think Toby’s going to stop. But eventually he does, back turned to Jan, shoulders motionless. It’s only when Jan reaches him and spots his face that he realizes he has no idea what to say. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he tries.

“I know.” Toby’s voice is cold, emotionless. Jan hates it. 

“Then what are you so upset about?” he says.

“They were better than us,” Toby says mockingly, splaying his hands in an exaggerated gesture. 

“Stop that, they weren’t!” Jan huffs, rolling his eyes. Toby’s being ridiculous, and Jan wants to make sure he knows. “We were just- _I don’t know_ \- unlucky.”

“We’re _always_ unlucky, Jan. At what point does it just become who we are?”

“That’s not how probability works, it’s-“

“I don’t give a _fuck_ about probability.” Toby’s voice is harsh, cutting. His narrowed eyes send a shiver up Jan’s spine. “We either win, or we lose. And this time we lost.”

“Ok, but we could still win, it was just one game, just one bad bounce,“ Jan says. He doesn’t even know why he’s arguing this point. Toby doesn’t need Jan to help him rationalize a defeat.

“But it’s not just one game. We,” Toby pauses to smirk at Jan, and all he can do is wait. “Spurs are not winning _anything_ this year.”

And deep down inside, Jan knows it’s probably true. But he can’t stand Toby looking like this, talking like this. 

“You don’t know that, don’t say-“

“ _Jan_ ,” Toby spits, cutting him off.

“There’s always next year,” says Jan, desperately. He clocks the look on Toby’s face and realizes instantly it was the exact wrong thing to say. With a 25 million release clause, there might not be a _next year_. The realization passes heavy between them, and suddenly Jan feels a lump rising in his throat. 

He’d rather die than let Toby watch his face break, so instead he steps forward, wraps his arms around him and hides his face in the darkness. If Toby’s taken aback by Jan’s display of affection, he doesn’t show it. He just brings a single hand to the back of Jan’s jacket and waits. 

“Please,” Jan whispers into Toby’s neck. “Don’t leave.”

Toby grips the back of Jan’s neck for a moment, but then his fingers slacken. His hands find Jan’s shoulders, and suddenly there are six careful inches between them. He doesn’t say a word as he walks away. 

_Yeah, ok, so much for making Toby smile._


	2. Chapter 2

The frostiness that descends over their relationship nearly kills him. It’s Toby, so it’s still completely professional, cordial to a T. But the next day in training, Toby looks away right after Jan volleys home his inch-perfect cross. And he walks over to talk to Dele and Dier instead of chatting with Jan and Christian during the break. At the end of the day, he shakes Jan’s hand as a goodbye, instead of their customary quick hug. 

Jan tries to pretend everything’s fine, but he’s known Toby for so long, played with him for so long, _loved him_ for so long, he really can’t. Each tiny slight speaks volumes- the dip of Toby’s shoulder, the set of his jaw and the twitch of his lip. Jan tries not to let the hurt and disappointment coil too tightly in his chest.

He’s not the only one who notices; Christian’s all over his case. When Toby dodges both of them and darts out of the locker room, he looks at Jan with wide eyes and mouths, _what did you do?_

“It’s nothing,” Jan says. “It’s not me, maybe he just has somewhere else to be.” Except Jan’s nowhere near believing that himself, and judging by the look on Christian’s face, it doesn’t do much for him either. 

“Sure, Jan,” he says. He picks up his bag and leaves Jan standing there, alone. 

Jan hangs around the training ground longer than he should. They’ve got big games coming up, and he has no idea what to do with all the nervous energy buzzing about his limbs. Normally Toby would be after him, tapping him on the shoulder, asking him if he wants to run extra drills, or hop on the stationary bikes and have a chat about their next opponents’ attack. But Toby’s not speaking to him, not really, and so Jan’s on his own.

He tries to have a conversation with himself about Zaha and the Crystal Palace attack, but it doesn’t really work. He asks all the wrong questions, gets absolutely nowhere. He heads out to an empty field and takes a few free kicks, as if Pochettino would ever call upon his services in a game. He takes a couple laps, too- jog the touchline, sprint the endline, just the way he likes. But then he realizes he probably shouldn’t be putting any additional pressure on his knees, so he heads inside to the lap pool.

He expects it to be empty when he gets there, but it’s not. There’s someone already there, arms cutting through the water, feet kicking up small splashes. Blond hair plastered against a very familiar skull. _Toby_. 

Jan can’t stop to think about the fact that Toby’s here too, and what it might mean. He waits for Toby to surface, pull up his goggles, and open his mouth to start a conversation about Zaha or even the fucking Tour de France. But he doesn’t, his arms just keep cutting through the water, and his head stays below the surface.

“What did I do?” Jan’s voice rings out through the pool. But if Toby hears him, he doesn’t come up for air. Jan stays there and watches him until he starts to feel a gnawing hunger in his gut, and when he can’t ignore it any longer, he turns and walks away.

After that, he ignores Toby, too. _He doesn’t want to talk? Fine. Let him see how it feels._ The look on Christian’s face when he sees Jan angle his cold gaze carefully away from Toby before they jog out to face Crystal Palace tells him he’s playing a dangerous game.

Christian grabs his wrist at half time.

“ _Ouch_ ,” hisses Jan, “watch it.”

“Keep this up and we’re going to lose,” is all he says in response. And then he releases his viselike grip on Jan’s arm and turns away. 

They don’t lose, though. Sonny scores in the 55th minute, and Christian follows him in the 80th, and Jan goes straight back to ignoring Toby. 

The fact of the matter is, Jan can’t ignore Toby for very long, he just doesn’t have the self-control. He reaches his limit during the first leg against City, right about when Sonny smashes the ball into the back of the net, and Toby jogs right by him to celebrate without even a backward glance. After the game, he’d shaken Jan’s hand again, dashing any hope he might have had that Toby would thaw out if they won.

Jan hangs back in the locker room until everyone is gone. He runs his hand over the cold, antiseptic plastic placard over Toby’s locker and sighs. Toby’s had enough space, and Jan needs to talk to him, right now. He sits down and hunches back against his own locker, and takes out his phone.

_Can we talk_

He types the words in, and stares at the blinking cursor for ages. He’d been ready to give Toby space, but what if he _was_ really leaving at the end of the season? There’s only so much time, and quite frankly, this is getting ridiculous. He hits send.

Toby never responds, nor does Jan expect him to. He just sits there scrolling through instagram, scrolling and scrolling until he gets all the way back to the post he shared of them, smiling, standing next to each other in the new stadium. He’s still staring at it when he hears the quiet pad of sneakers, and a shadow eclipses the white skin of his knee.

“Funny, it feels like years ago we took that picture on the stadium tour, and now we’re here,” Jan says. 

Toby stays silent.

“You played really well tonight,” he tries, an attempt at some sort of olive branch. He already knows it’s not going to work, he’s been trying all week.

Jan throws up his hands in frustration anyway.

“Oh, come on, we win against City and you’re still not speaking to me?” He gets to his feet, voice raised. He hopes no one else has lingered because he’s already too loud and aggressive for anyone to assume they’re having a polite conversation.

“I am speaking to you.” Toby’s response is frigid, almost a direct contradiction to his words.

“Barely,” mutters Jan, rolling his eyes.

“We still have a second leg to lose,” says Toby. It’s his nonchalance that does it. Jan’s totally fed up. He has no idea why Toby’s so angry, not even a clue. And Toby’s standing in front of him, cooly telling him they’re going to lose in the second leg. He gets to his feet.

“Cut the crap, would you? I’ve known you for years, and I’ve never seen you act like such a pessimistic little cunt,” Jan hisses, eyes narrow.

“Excuse me? A pessimistic little- _what-now_?” Toby’s voice rises a few octaves, eyebrows fly to his hairline. Jan had deeply regretted the words the second they left his mouth. But that’s nothing compared to what he feels now, looking at the shock on Toby’s face. He shuts his eyes for a moment, just so he doesn’t have to see.

“Toby, sorry, I-“ Jan takes a deep breath, trying to calm the blood rushing in his ears. “I didn’t mean that. I just-

“You’ve been freezing me out all week. It hurts,” Jan admits, “And I don’t know what I did. You’ve never acted like this before, and I-” his voice cracks heavily on the _I,_ and he swallows. “I don’t know what to do.”

Toby sits down heavily on the bench, hands clasped in front of him. Jan paces for a moment, but when Toby doesn’t immediately say anything he folds his long frame and sits down next to him.

“You asked me to stay,” says Toby, not looking at Jan.

“So?” Jan’s anger returns in full force. "Would it really be that bad? Is staying at Spurs really that much of a disaster?”

“That’s not why I’m upset, would you just-” Toby curls his hands into his hair, and stops to take a deep breath.

“Would I just what? Spit it out, Toby.”

“Just shut up and listen to me,” Toby yells. 

And Jan’s cowed. He knew he was pushing Toby, but he can count the number of times he’s seen him lose composure on one hand. He takes several deep breaths before he speaks again. 

“I’m mad that you would ask me to stay,” he starts, voice back to its quiet and measured tone, “when you obviously know that I-“ 

Jan freezes. “That I what?” 

“That I would,” Toby says, voice hoarse.

“Oh, come on, Toby, you know I wasn’t really asking, right?” _Right?_ Because surely Toby knows that. Surely Toby knows he said it in the moment, that all he really wants is for Toby to be happy.

Toby sniffs heavily and shakes his head.

“How can you be mad about that,” Jan picks over the words slowly, carefully, “when you asked the same of me?”

“What?” Toby’s brow furrows, blue eyes wide, and confused.

“ _I’ve played more games with him than without him. If I leave Spurs, Jan will have to come with me,”_ Jan parrots, mimicking Toby’s deep, controlled media voice. 

Toby squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them, Jan’s relieved to see a glimmer of understanding there. He stands and faces Jan for a moment, then walks toward the door.

“I would, for you.” Toby’s low voice is so quiet, Jan’s sure he imagined it.

He’s already gone by the time Jan whispers, “ _me, too._ ”

Jan barely has time to digest Toby’s words, or worry about the fact that he hadn’t said them back. They’ve got three games against City in two weeks, and pretty much all of Jan’s energy is devoted to getting ready, staying fit. 

He does notice Toby’s thawing out to him a little bit. It’s not much, but he meets Jan’s eye when he passes him the salt shaker at lunch. The handshakes he gives at the end of practice are getting a little firmer, a little warmer. Still, Toby had admitted something big. And the more Jan thinks about it, the he needs to make sure Toby hears it back.

_This is probably not the best time,_ he muses. They’re all lined up in the tunnel at the Etihad, ready to go. But Jan’s waited long enough, and this game has a finality about it, like if they lose, Jan might never get another chance. So he takes a deep breath, sidles up next to Toby, and squeezes his hand, just once. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Toby looking at him expectantly. 

“Me, too,” he says, very quietly, so only Toby can hear. 

And then they trot out onto the field, and Jan can’t even wonder whether Toby heard, whether he understood what Jan was saying, before they’re swept away in the madness of the Champions League.

It’s not a kind game. Jan would thank his lucky stars if he never has to play one like it again. 

When the ref finally blows the whistle, he loses his mind for a little. He doesn’t know where he goes or who he talks to. Just yells himself hoarse, unsure whether the dampness on his cheeks is his own, or someone else’s.

“We’re celebrating tonight!” There’s Dier’s shaking his shoulders, yelling in his face. Trippier, sobbing into his shoulder.

There’s Sonny and Dele lying on the ground like used confetti. Pochettino crying. Gazzaniga, yanking on his hair so hard he’s pretty sure it’s going to fall out, yelling something in his ear he doesn’t quite catch. 

And Toby’s in the middle of of it all, staring at Jan in a way that makes everyone else around them disappear into a turquoise blur. The noise of celebration passes him by, and all he can see is those blue eyes, and the promise pooling in their depths. There’s something in the air, too, just a little bit of magic telling him things might actually go his way for once.

Of course, that’s the last second he gets to so much as look at Toby for the next several hours. He lets Dele and Sissoko bundle him into a row of seats on the plane, lets them push a beer into one of his hands, and seven Uno cards into the other. He yells with them the whole way home, not caring when his English slips into French, and then into Dutch, and back into English when he realizes the only other Dutch-speakers are enjoying a slightly tamer game of cards further up in the plane.

They spill out of the plane half-drunk and still giddy. Dele and Eric are flitting around, giving everyone the name of some bar where they’re all going to meet in an hour.

And there’s Eriksen by his shoulder, asking him if he wants to grab a cab. Hugo, sliding in the door at the last second. Lamela, yelling through the window, “see you all there!”

“Is he coming?” Christian asks quietly.

“I think so.” Jan twists his thumbs nervously, staring out the window, blind to both Christian’s approving nod, and the rows of dark houses blinking by.

At first, Jan thinks he’s really not going to come. At least an hour passes, maybe more, and Jan’s already on his third whiskey ginger. He’s exhausted from the game, and from Christian’s attempts to distract him, to get him to stop glancing around the bar every minute or so. 

But then suddenly, Toby’s there, just standing there right next to the door. Jan’s heart turns over in his chest. His hair is impeccable, as always. He’s got his jacket off, thrown casually over his arm, and he’s wearing a grey button-up shirt tucked into his dark jeans. It’s rolled up his forearms in a way that makes Jan go a little weak in the knees. 

And he’s staring at Jan, teeth pulling at his lip, eyes wide open and honest. He knows all of Toby’s facial expressions down to the slightest twitch. So he understands with a sudden clarity what’s about to happen, and crosses the room with long strides. 

“Hi,” Jan breaths, leaning in. Toby tilts his head just slightly. “You look happy to see me.”

He runs a thumb down Toby’s tattooed arm and rests it gently on his wrist. He can’t help it, he’s always been a little bit fascinated with that arm, and the exhaustion in his body from the game makes it all that much more appealing. He can’t miss Toby’s little exhale, or the way he’s fidgeting against the wall. There are mere inches between them, and Jan’s stomach is already doing flip flops. 

He’s not drunk enough to think it’s a good idea to do this here, so instead of closing that tiny gap he leans past Toby’s face to whisper in his ear.

“Come home with me,” he says, voice gravelly. Toby nods, swallowing, and follows Jan across the room and out the door. 

They don’t talk in the taxi. They just sit there, exchanging glances at each other. Toby’s got a tiny little smirk on his face, and Jan’s sure he has a matching one. He rests his hand on the other defender’s knee, a promise. He inches it up higher every stop sign, and Toby doesn’t protest so he only draws it away when he reaches the pocket of Toby’s jeans right around the corner from Jan’s house.

They don’t talk in the foyer, where Jan helps Toby out of his coat and hangs it on the stand next to the door. He turns around slowly, rubbing his hands together. He can still feel that heat between them from the bar, but he doesn’t know how to approach Toby, his friend, his colleague.

They don’t talk while Jan pours two glasses of whiskey from his crystal decanter with shaking hands. Toby takes it from him and gulps down half. He doesn’t drag Toby down on the couch, doesn’t tell Toby how desperately he wants him right now.

They don’t talk when Jan finally works up the courage to take his hand and lead him up the stairs, or when he spreads the blonde defender out on top of his sheets, pressing his wrists in to the mattress above his head. 

They don’t talk when Jan kisses his way down Toby’s torso, and Toby doesn’t make a sound when Jan’s mouth closes hot around the tip of his cock. He doesn’t make a sound when Jan’s slicked-up fingers trail up between the soft, secret parts of his upper thighs, and he doesn’t make a sound when Jan works them carefully into Toby’s tight heat.

When Jan hovers over him, lined up and poised to push inside, all he says is, “You sure?”

“Yes,” Toby whispers, lips hot against his neck.

They fill the room with quiet sighs as Jan rolls his hips, brushes his fingers over Toby’s cheeks, sinks his teeth into his shoulder.

Toby’s hitching breath is the only evidence of his pleasure as Jan slides a hand between them, and eases Toby over the edge. Jan comes a second later, forehead pressed to Toby’s, fingers in his hair, name spilling in a whisper from his lips.

Jan wakes up face down, mouth dry and head pounding at the sun streaming in through the window. Memories of last night come quickly, and Jan’s morning wood throbs against the sheets, interested. He opens his eyes. Toby’s already awake, reading a book he’s picked up off Jan’s bedside table. 

“We should talk,” he says, turning the page. Short, to the point. Jan rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and drags himself to half-sitting, pulling the sheets to pool in his lap. Toby’s staring at him, eyes wide and blue. 

“I care about you,” says Toby simply, bringing his hand to cup Jan’s cheek. “I’ve always cared about you.”

“I thought it was professional,” Jan admits, sleepy, leaning into Toby’s touch. “We never talked about it, we-“

“It’s not,” Toby says, simply, stroking his thumb across Jan’s cheek bone, rendering Jan totally silent.

“I care about you, too” Jan’s voice cracks when he finally speaks.

“That won’t change when I leave,” Toby says.

“When?” Jan can’t miss that word choice, and it breaks his heart, even with what he thinks Toby’s promising.

“We all leave eventually.” He slides his finger out of Jan’s book as he places it back on the night stand behind him. Toby brings his hands to frame Jan’s face, and Jan stares up at him, completely disarmed by the tender look in Toby’s eye.

“All this time,” Jan murmurs. It’s a question as much as an admission. He shakes his head, feels his stubble scrape against Toby’s soft palms. 

“All this time,” Toby confirms. He kisses Jan slow and sweet, slotting their bodies together, pressing him back into the pillows. They rock together, skin sliding against sheets between them, breath heavy.

This time, it’s Toby who sinks into Jan, takes him apart piece by piece. Jan’s whimpering by the time he spills hot onto his own stomach, fingers entwined with Toby’s, murmuring broken Dutch into the hollow of his neck. 

The afternoon finds Toby curled under Jan’s arm on the couch. Soft sunlight spills in Jan’s picture windows, catching on bits of Toby’s golden hair. Toby sips his coffee slowly, eyes drooping. Jan’s got a crossword on his knee and a furrow in his brow. He absentmindedly thumbs Toby’s elbow, coffee sitting forgotten on the table. 

He’s almost finished his puzzle, save for a few squares in the bottom right hand corner. He smiles fondly when Toby leans forward, sets down his empty cup, and snatches Jan’s.

“Toby,” he says. “What’s a seven letter word for ‘ _cry after a lengthy delay’_?” 

Toby looks up at him and smiles. “ _Finally_.”


End file.
